by Beth Ciotta
“He doesn’t fancy complications. Though we’ve employed extras on occasion, in general he’s not fond of working with unsanctioned players.”
I bristled on my friend’s behalf. “Nic’s an excellent actress.”
“As good as you?”
Knowing he considered me talented did wonders for my self-esteem. “Actually,” I said in all honesty, “she’s better.”
“Then she must be amazing, yeah?”
I love you. I love you. I love you.
“Speaking of acting…” he said. “Why weren’t you offered a part in the theater benefit?”
My heart settled back in my chest. “Doesn’t matter.” I shrugged. “It’s not like I even want to be in the musical. I don’t have it anymore.”
“Have what?”
“The eye of the tiger.”
“Theme song from Rocky III.”
“I can’t believe you got that reference. I can’t believe you’ve seen Rocky III.”
“Sly? Boxing? Adrenaline-charged drama? Come on.” He turned the Mercedes onto Main Street. “So you’ve lost your killer instinct, yeah?”
“For performing. Yeah.” The numbness was both startling and welcome. “I just…I don’t burn to be on stage anymore. Not in the sense I know. I burn to make a difference. To prevent scum artists from preying on the vulnerable. I want to do what you do.” I want to be with you in every sense. I swallowed hard. “We have to convince Beckett that I’m capable of maintaining—” I bit back the word relationship, not wanting to scare him off “—an affair with you without compromising my work in the field.”
“You’re not officially working in the field.”
“Yet.”
“What if we cannae?”
“You’re a master manipulator. Of course we can.”
“Appreciate your confidence, Sunshine, but Beckett is no easy mark. What if you have to choose?”
“I don’t want to choose. I want it all.”
He shook his head. “I love your enthusiasm, lass.”
What about me? I wanted to ask but didn’t.
We pulled into the civic center parking lot. Arch killed the engine, regarded me over the rims of his sunglasses—bad-boy baron in a badass suit and tie. “Ready to dance?”
More than you know. “Let’s boogie.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
RANDOLPH GISH WAS an accomplished dancer.
Arch was not.
In the first fifteen minutes of our private dance lesson he stepped on my toes five times. I was stunned. The man loved music. He listened to his MP3 player while exercising and primping after a shower. How could he not have rhythm? Then again, I knew some musicians who smoked melodically but had questionable timing. Talk about disappointing.
Unless he was faking—like me.
It took concentrated effort to botch steps I could perform in my sleep. Due to my work as a party motivator, in which I generally worked with a professional male dancer, I was pretty adept at the fox-trot, the waltz, the swing and the hustle. Not that you’d know it by my current two-left-feet performance.
“Bloody hell,” Arch said when I mashed his instep. “This is hopeless.”
“This is a challenge we shall overcome,” Randolph said in his enthusiastic, semieffeminate voice. He clapped his hands twice. “They call me the miracle worker. How long did you say you’d be in town?”
“One, maybe two weeks.”
The dance instructor palmed his hand over his slicked-back hair. “Perhaps if we double up on the lessons…”
“Whatever it takes,” Arch said, loosening his tie. “Money’s no object. We’re attending a prestigious charity ball at the end of this month. We’ll be expected to dance, and I’d prefer we didnae make spectacles of ourselves, yeah?”
“It wouldn’t be so bad,” I added, “if at least one of us was confident. Maybe we could concentrate on one dance—say—I don’t know…the waltz. We could dance the slow songs and sit out the fast ones, right?”
“Aye,” Arch said. “I suppose that would work.”
“Except not all songs are in three-quarter time,” Randolph said.
“Does it matter?” Arch asked.
I knew that it did but shrugged.
“The waltz is danced to a triple beat. One-two-three, one-two-three,” Randolph demonstrated in a singsong voice. “It calls for a certain amount of grace.”
Arch raised a brow.
Randolph acquiesced with a slight bow. “The waltz it is.” He moved over to his CD player and, not for the first time, I noted a slight swish of his hips. I knew better than to stereotype, but I had a pretty keen gaydar, and it blipped. I told myself I was imagining things, because that didn’t mesh with my Sweetheart-scam theory. If he wasn’t the hustler, I didn’t have a clue as to who was.
Randolph pushed a button and the sultry sounds of Anne Murray filled the air. “Can I Have This Dance”: a pop song in three-quarter time. “Let me show you individually before you attempt the steps together.” He held open his arms. “Evie?”
I was distracted by a ringing phone. My phone. Charged and working. “I’m sorry. Just let me see…” It was Mom. “I need to take this. I’ll step into the hall. Maybe you can start with Arch.”
I skittered out of the room, my slick-soled, funky Mary Janes sliding over the polished hardwood floor. Once in the hall, I connected. “Hi, Mom.”
“Did your friend Nicole find her way to the Appleseed?”
“She did. Thanks for giving her directions. Sorry I didn’t tell you she was coming. Her gig got canceled and she thought she’d join us and…” I took a deep breath and out-and-out lied to my mom. For the greater good. “As fate would have it, she’s actually dating Northbrook. Can you believe it?” I relayed the concocted story, thinking I could always submit scripts for soap operas if my job with Chameleon tanked.
“They make a handsome couple,” Mom simply said. “Be sure to invite them to the barbecue. Speaking of…do you think Archibald would prefer German potato salad or egg potato salad?”
Obviously she was obsessing on dinner. “I don’t think it matters.” I honestly didn’t know.
“It’s all in the details, Evelyn. He said he wanted to experience an authentic American barbecue.”
“I think he wants to experience a casual meal with the Parish family. We always have egg. Make egg.”
“I’ve never operated your dad’s new propane grill. I hope Christopher knows how to use it.”
“I’m sure he does. Not that Dad will entrust his burger to Christopher. He always complains he overcooks the meat.”
“I didn’t invite George.”
“I did.”
Long silence. Strained silence.
Dance, Evie, dance. I had her ear, her attention now. Later tonight she’d have a house full of guests. Later she’d have a dozen reasons to avoid me. I rocked on my heels, weaved side to side like a fighter preparing for a bout.
Dance.
“Mom, I think I understand why you and Daddy split up. When he bought the tavern instead of a vacation home, you felt betrayed, cheated. Believe me, I know the feeling. It sucks.”
“Language, Evelyn.”
“But it’s been a month. I can’t fathom why you haven’t made up by now. Surely you can strike a compromise. You love each other.”
“This isn’t about love. It’s about respect. Compatibility. Trust.”
I stopped in my tracks, reeling at her strained confession. Maybe it was easier for her to express her feelings over the phone rather than one-on-one. It was worth a shot. “Maybe it’s about meeting halfway.”
“It’s more complicated than that.”
“Have you told Daddy—”
“He wouldn’t listen.”
“How do you know if—”
“I really don’t want to talk about this, Evelyn.”
“Please don’t shut me out.” I love you. “I want to help.”
“You have worries of your own.”
&
nbsp; “No worries. My life’s on track.”
“Thanks to Archibald.”
“No. Thanks to me.” Granted, Arch was a huge part of my newfound personal joy ride, but I’d landed the job with Chameleon on my own. Beckett was the one who’d agreed to give me a shot at a new profession. Not Arch. Arch was wishy-washy about me working with Chameleon. If I were the ultimate cynic, I’d think he was sabotaging my chances. What if you have to choose? I pushed the unpleasant thought aside.
“You’ve changed.”
I swallowed. “So have you.”
“Sometimes change is good. I’m glad you’re learning that early.”
“Mom—”
“I hear music.”
“I’m at the civic center. I’m taking a dance lesson.”
“With Randolph? Why? You know how to dance.”
“But Arch doesn’t. He has this charity ball coming up and…” God, I hated lying to my family.
“I understand. The paparazzi. They snap shots at the most inopportune times. Heaven forbid they catch the baron looking like a buffoon on the dance floor.”
“Yes, well, that may happen anyway. The man has no rhythm.”
“I must say, I’m surprised he didn’t take lessons as a boy. Surely his parents knew he’d be obligated to attend various social functions, given his title.”
“His mother paid for lessons, but he skipped them. He was a bit of a rebel.” At least the rebel part was true. Oh, and the baron part, although he didn’t inherit the title. My mind scrambled to keep fact and fiction straight. “As for social functions, believe it or not, until now he’s easily avoided the dance floor. The man can talk his way out of anything.” Fact. “But he knows I love to dance, so he’s learning for me.” Fiction.
“How sweet,” she said. “Well, even if he does have two left feet, Randolph can help.”
“He did call himself the miracle worker.”
“He certainly worked miracles with me.”
“Mom—”
“Did you tell him you’re my daughter?”
“Not yet.” My suspicions nettled. “Any reason I shouldn’t?”
“No. Just wondering. I have to run now, Evelyn. So much to do.”
“Mom—”
“See you tonight.”
She disconnected and I stared at my cell. Had I just had a heart-to-heart with my repressive mother? Okay, there were still unanswered questions, but still. I practically floated back into the dance studio. Once there, I paused and cocked my head at the sight of two men in a loose embrace waltzing—sort of—across the room. My gaydar blipped.
“One-two-three, one-two-three,” Randolph recited, emphasis on the one. “Ow,” he said when Arch stepped on his foot, then, “Do not be deterred by small mistakes. I already sense improvement.”
Anne crooned, “Will you be my partner every night?”
Randolph smiled—though to me it seemed forced—and squeezed Arch’s hand. “Let’s have another go.”
Blip. Blip.
A phone rang. Not mine. “Be back in a second,” Arch said. “Maybe Evie will do better.”
He left the room and I stepped into Randolph’s embrace, brain stuttering. Maybe he wasn’t swindling Mom. Maybe she’d donated the money to a scholarship fund. She had a thing about scholarships. Or maybe she’d loaned the money to a friend. “Here’s the thing,” I said as Randolph assumed the lead position. “I know how to waltz. I pretended I didn’t because I don’t want Arch to feel bad.” All part of the ruse, and it tumbled off my lips with ease. Gish wasn’t family. I wasn’t lying. I was improvising lines per my character: American girlfriend of a Scottish noble.
“I understand,” he said without hesitation. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
That last part rekindled my suspicions, though I couldn’t say why. Just gut. “It’s just that Arch is a prominent man and…”
“Excuse me, Mr. Gish.”
We stopped midwaltz and focused on the receptionist Arch and I had passed on the way in.
“There’s a man here, a reporter from the Tribune,” she said. “Very insistent.”
“Go ahead,” I told him, hoping this had something to do with a hot scoop. European Baron Waltzes into Local Singer’s Life.
“I’ll be right back,” he said to Arch on his way out. “Hit the replay-track button and practice. Remember—loose grip, elbow bent.”
Arch crossed the floor and took me in his arms. “Where’s he headed?”
“To deal with a pushy reporter.”
He grinned. “That didnae take long.”
“You’re big news in a small town. Gossip travels fast.”
“I’m aware.”
“All part of your plan.”
His eyes twinkled with equal parts mischief and arrogance.
“You’re like a puppet master. Pulling people’s strings, manipulating their actions.”
“A necessary skill given my line of work, yeah?”
“If you hadn’t blown your savings acquiring a title,” I whispered, fishing for more info, “you wouldn’t need to work.”
He smiled down at me. “I didnae blow my savings.”
I pressed my body against his, wrapped my arms around his neck. Swaying in place to the music, instead of waltzing, would save my toes and allow us to converse in hushed tones. Plus, I ached to be in his arms. “You could be living in your homeland, enjoying the lifestyle of a baron.”
“I spend a bit of time there, but my heart is here.”
I blinked up at him, touched and confused by the out-of-character sentiment. “Wow. For you that was downright mushy.”
“What was I thinking?” He winked and grinned, but the smile failed to reach his eyes.
“You weren’t,” I guessed. “Freudian slip. Suggests you’re not as detached as you like people to believe.”
“Thank you, Dr. Evie.”
“So, should I be flattered? Or were you referring to Chameleon?”
“Let’s just say the United States offers some interesting perks.”
“In other words, no comment.”
He responded by leaning in and nipping my earlobe. “Dinnae you want to know who called me?”
Evasion. Typical. Although I couldn’t argue with his means of distraction. The ear nipping was hot. “All right, Puppet Master. Who was on the phone?”
“Beckett. He heard from Hot Legs and Tabasco. No luck scoring the invitation to that private game. But they did ID the roper. One more night at the tables should do it.”
Just like that, my mind was back in the current game. My skin tingled with the thrill of the hunt. Or maybe it was because one of Arch’s hands had drifted possessively to my butt. Zing. “We’re off and running.”
He narrowed his eyes. “When you say we…”
“I made some progress, too.”
“Randolph?”
“Mom. She called to ask if you prefer German potato salad or egg potato salad. I said it didn’t matter, but when pressed I went with egg.”
“And this is progress how?”
“That’s just how the conversation started.”
“Ah.”
“She talked about Dad. A little. I know she loves him and I know he hurt her. I suspect she’s rebelling, hence the new, hipper Marilyn Parish.”
“So she’s acting out of spite?”
“Or maybe to get attention. Dad’s attention. One thing’s for sure—if she’s being hustled, it’s not by Randolph.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He’s gay.”
“He’s good.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s faking.”
“Faking being gay?”
“Aye.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“He has a tell.” He dipped his chin, winked. “He’s good. I’m better.”
I rolled my eyes at his cocky tone, not that I wasn’t intrigued. “Why would a heterosexual man pretend otherwise?”
“Have y
ou any gay friends or acquaintances?”
“Lots. Men and women.”
“The men—you like shopping with them, dishing with them, scoping out other men with them, aye?”
“Well, yeah. It’s like being with one of the girls only…”
“There’s a bit of sexual tension.”
“Not always. But if I find the guy attractive, yes. You can flirt and show affection, but it’s…safe.” Throughout the conversation I’d been mindful of Arch’s tone and body language. I didn’t get any homophobe vibes, which was a turn-on. Plus, where sway dancing was concerned, his rhythm was dead-on, sexy even. Like I needed more reasons to be attracted to the man. Zing. “How do you know so much about the straight girl/gay guy buddy bond?”
“Understanding the human psyche. Basic equipment in a con artist’s toolbox, yeah?”
“Along with control, observation, articulation and detachment,” I said, frowning at the latter.
His mouth quirked. “When you study something you go all oot, yeah?”
“If my heart is in it, yeah.” I looked around his shoulder, confirming we were still alone. “So…what? You think instead of a Sweetheart scam, Randolph’s pulling a Will and Grace to earn Mom’s confidence?”
“Will and Grace?”
“It’s a TV show.” Right. Beckett watched sitcoms. Arch movies. My mind drifted to my awareness of Beckett. Was there such a thing as a straight girl/straight guy buddy bond? “The point is, if you’re right about him faking his sexual orientation, then he’s not who he seems.” I tugged at his tie, halting our seductive grind. "I’ve got it. When Randolph comes back, I want you to misstep so I can trip over your feet.”
“Why?
“So I can plow into him.”
“So you can nick his wallet?”
I’d pulled that stunt—successfully—on the cruise. What was with the skeptical tone? “It’s in his front pocket—” I’d verified that, subtly, while we’d danced “—which will make it trickier, but—”
“No.”
“But it’ll contain ID.”
He disengaged my fingers from his tie, kissed my palm. “Bogus ID.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Either way, we could get a better bead on him. Maybe a clue that would help Woody trace his background.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s not worth the risk, yeah? There are other ways.”